


Black Scales, Yellow Feathers

by cherryberg



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Apple of Eden, Apples, Crushes, Curses, Dark Mark (Harry Potter), Dysfunctional Family, Falling In Love, Family, Family Drama, Family Issues, Hufflepuff, Hufflepuff!Crowley, Idiots in Love, M/M, Magic, Out of Character, Parselmouths, Pomegranates, Salt, Slow Burn, Snakes, Stereotypes, Swords, but again not really, but not really, deadnaming, hufflepuff!aziraphale, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 16:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19872265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryberg/pseuds/cherryberg
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley are more than excited to be enrolled into Hogwarts but things don't really turn out the way they expect when they're sorted into a different house from their families.Based on a Tumblr post by @cheeseanonionchips (check them out, they're pretty cool)





	Black Scales, Yellow Feathers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jay/gifts).



> Anyway, it's late when I'm posting this so it's not edited properly but I wanted to get it out there before my trip (and in time for a birthday. Happy birthday, Jay). I'll proofread it and do all that soon, I swear(?). Oh and don't expect quality, it's mostly fancy.

“GRYFFINDOR!”

At the drop of a hat’s decision, almost a fourth of the hall roared in celebration. The rest acted as either a clapping ensemble or an eye-rolling audience. That’s right, it was the start of a new year at Hogwarts and the annual Sorting Ceremony for the anxious first-years was in order. There was food at long tables to match the copious amounts of students, with professors to watch.

Outside the crowded Great Hall, Aziraphale stood by himself, fiddling with his hands in a brimming excitement and wonder. Everything here was just so… grand! He hadn’t seen much, he _was_ rather new here, but his family would always tell stories of their time at Hogwarts. To the curious ghosts that walked hallways and pestered students, from the stone stairways that moved without warning. They joked of the lit candles that floated below a sky-covered ceiling. They told of portraits that not only moved but _interacted_ , the library, oh the library, and, one of Aziraphale’s favourites, _the_ _food_. The energy of the cheering houses from the room over didn’t help either. Oh, how _fun_ that all sounded.

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

Though it did not match how he felt internally, Aziraphale, nonetheless, appeared calm and approachable and _ good _ . He came from a respectable family, therefore he had to act so, in one manner or another. It all distracted him from the feeling of anxiety deep down in his stomach that lingered from the train ride over. 

“SLYTHERIN!”

There it was again. The roar, the passion. The clapping and celebration. The love that Aziraphale could sense constantly. Though, a strange mystery Aziraphale did happen to notice was that, whenever a Slytherin was called, the energy didn’t quite seem to match with the others. If he focused hard enough, he could hear whispers and scowls. Gasps and gossips. Aziraphale knew exactly why this was, of course.

Aziraphale knew all about the four houses. He couldn’t help himself from reading, despite the almost endless supply of first-hand tales. He knew of a Headmaster who had a strong bias toward the brave, the adventurous, the pride of red and gold. He knew of the sinister motives that shadowed the den of snakes. He knew of the kind, friendly and somewhat gluttonous spirits in the clan of black and yellow. He knew of the true scholars, the smarts, the brains of them all: the nest of eagles. Or, well, ravens. These were all assumptions, of course. Stereotypes. Though, that did not stop him from knowing exactly which house he belonged to.

“Strange hat, innit?” A stranger asked, taking no time to break ice. “Just some magical cap that talks and sorts. Well, I mean it does also sing but it’s very good at that, is it?”

“Ah, well, the  _ Sorting Hat  _ plays a very important role here at Hogwarts and it does it fairly well.” Aziraphale answered almost instinctively, slightly unsure if the questions were directed at him. “It’s designed to go through your mind and, well, does what its name implies. Sorts you into the house that best suits you, that is.”

Another first-year had slithered by Aziraphale’s side. He was a curious one who most certainly caught Aziraphale by surprise. It was strange to start a conversation from out of the blue, stranger to wear sunglasses inside. Aziraphale wasn’t to complain though. It wasn’t his place to judge the style of others, especially from gingers or from shady people or both, or perhaps he was just hiding something. A mystery, he was, this fellow first-year, and it nagged him.

“Yeah? What’d you think it’ll say then?” The first-year poked rather mockingly, his s’s lingering softly behind.

“Well, my family has been placed in the same house for millennia. It’d be ludicrous to sort me in any other house--!” Aziraphale caught himself before he grew too loud and unruly, worrying if someone were to hear the unhumble nonsense he was babbling about.

“Oh, a family tradition.” The first-year hummed, smiling as if it were humorous. Aziraphale’s words felt ever so familiar to him and yet he still seemed impressed. “You could tell me all about it and I would have more to add.”

“Ah, well, whatever decision it comes to make, we shouldn’t question it now.” Aziraphale told himself off more than he did the first-year. “Its plan for us here, you see, is... ineffable.”

“Ineffable?”

“Ineffable!” Aziraphale retaliated, standing his ground for his word choice. “Far too great to be put into measly little words. Just like the Great Plan.” 

Aziraphale had definitely made things a little awkward. It was evident by the painfully long moment of silence, enough time for the previously-background chatterings to become clear. Aziraphale could tell, even under those dark shades, that eyes were being avoided, that the casual posture has turned stiff, that a life-long sorrow had been brought up. This boy, for whatever reason, was  _ uncomfortable _ and  _ sad _ , and it was all the poor Angel's fault, rightfully so. Another item added to the list of things that would keep him up at night including, but not limited to, disappointing his family, being placed into any other house, losing a brilliant family heirloom, and fraternising with a clear enemy. Changing topics was the current best decision, for both the first-year and Aziraphale.

“Say, I must ask,” Aziraphale spoke, acting as nonchalantly as possible to hide how awkward he and their situation was, “Why the glass--” Aziraphale had then caught peek of a mark on the side of the boy’s head, by his ear. It was simply a glance but it looked all too familiar. It looked like the mark of a servant of evil. The Dark Mark. “Oh... Oh my.” Aziraphale gasped, his stomach dropping.

“Ezra Fell?” A professor called, standing by the door to the hall, cracked open to reveal a stage where a row of other professors sat at a long table.

“Ah, I assume that would be me. Must be another error.” Aziraphale muttered, internally damning his unique first name and lack of a last one. “It’s been a pleasure…” He trailed off, swiftly flipping through the short time he had with the fellow first-year in his head to catch a name that hadn’t been thrown.

“Crowley.” The no-longer stranger answered.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale echoed with a smile.

Aziraphale sighed as he drifted over, his fidgety hands connecting at his front. He was content with getting away from any trouble that that Dark-Marked Crowley fellow could’ve caused, but now a wave of anxiety was ready to come crashing down. Aziraphale stared out the door, knowing he’d have to get up eventually, and yet his legs refused to take another step forward.

“Ezra,” the professor spoke warmly, aware of the situation as the cheering from the previous sort started to fade, “I’m afraid we haven’t much time, darling.”

“I know.” Aziraphale swallowed, eyes fixed on the crowd. He took two deep breaths, his heart thumping in his chest, and made his way up toward the stage to suddenly stop and look behind him. “I feel like you ought to know that it’s just Aziraphale.” He stammered with an awkward smile to which he got a response of a thumbs up.

Aziraphale, calming his nerves, continued his way up toward the stage and elegantly sat upon a worn stool. He closed his eyes, knowing what was to come. Aziraphale felt a weight slowly lowering down upon his head and then, the deciding started. The Sorting Hat could make its decisions instantly but what worried Aziraphale was that a conversation started to take place in his mind. 

“Ah!” The voice of the Hat echoed in his head moments after being placed. “You’re a descendant of that Ravenclaw family, are you?”

“Indeed I am.” Aziraphale confirmed, his internal voice sounding more professional than its reality. “My name is Aziraphale. I am the heir of, and currently hold, our family heirloom, the Fla--”

“I know who you are, Aziraphale.” The Hat grumbled, working away at Aziraphale’s memories and categorising his qualities and traits. “I suppose you’re wanting to join the rest? Sandalphon, Uriel, Michael. Gabriel.”

“I wouldn’t want to disappoint.” Aziraphale responded, twiddling his thumbs nestled on his lap. “You know how They are, you know how _Gabriel_ is.”

“Hmm... Aziraphale,” The Hat hummed, “perhaps you’re needed elsewhere. Perhaps you  _ need _ to be elsewhere. You want to be elsewhere, right? 

“I-I’m sorry?” Aziraphale stuttered, catching that something wasn’t quite right here.

“I know you know we consider your wishes but I also know of your hesitance, Aziraphale.”

“Pardon me but I haven’t the slightest clue of what you mean.”

“You’ll survive and you’ll love them, I know you will. I know they already love you.”

“I didn’t quite catch what you meant before--”

“HUFFLEPUFF!” announced the Hat aloud.

Aziraphale’s closed eyes suddenly burst open, wide at the proclamation. The wave of roars commenced at once, roars that Aziraphale would be delighted for were deaf against his ears. At a guess, he would say that his conversation with the Sorting Hat lasted, what, five seconds. Tops. Hufflepuff. And yet he had himself sorted into Hufflepuff. He couldn’t possibly be a Hufflepuff! Right? Aziraphale prided himself on his vast sea of knowledge, something that Ravenclaws too admired, and yet he was a  _ Hufflepuff _ . Hufflepuffs... Well, Hufflepuffs weren’t all that well known for their lights upstairs.

Aziraphale awkwardly made his way down the stage as if he were in a daze, stumbling toward the third table, the table flooded with the most love. With a huff, Azirphale took a seat, constantly shifting his position along the long, crowded benches to find a semblance of comfort. Once satisfied, he closed his eyes to take a moment to get his thoughts straight and breathe, ignoring the commotion for a second.

Calmed down, Aziraphale opened his eyes to find the best part of Hogwarts: the numerous plates of lovely food, the best from what he’d heard. Plates and plates of whatever Aziraphale would like, endlessly replenished by House Elves and magical feats. From pies to peas, Yorkshire puddings to pork chops. There were potatoes upon potatoes upon potatoes, all of which could be topped with gravy. Roasted, mashed, boiled, and chips! Examining the rest of the table’s contents, Aziraphale had found a bowl full of peppermint humbugs that sat upon the table. He simply smiled at the candy in amusement, wondering what Muggle confectionery we’re doing here. Aziraphale had noticed his empty goblet and had looked away for a moment to only look back to find it had considerably filled itself up with apple juice. Aziraphale acknowledged its kindness with a sweet smile. Oh, how magic these feasts were. Almost had him forgetting his troubles.

“Don’t you question it, Aziraphale. It has a plan. Never question the plan.” He sighed positively as he straightened his posture, regaining his grace. “Right! No use diddle-daddling, a decision has already been made!”

As Aziraphale gathered his desired meal onto his silver plate, his eyes just happened to wander back to the stage. He found another student making their way to the stool with a certain confidence. Though speedy, it looked as if she knew exactly what she was doing and what was to happen next. She looked like a warm-yet-eccentric spirit, the sort of person who’d look like they'd own a handful of cats, leading Aziraphale to expected another Hufflepuff classmate. He assumed that the Hat had lost its famous accuracy over the years when it had assigned her to Ravenclaw. 

“Oh, I wonder how that dastardly fellow from before turns out...” Aziraphale hummed with a low grumble, clapping for Ravenclaw’s newest member out of semi-sour sportsmanship. “What was it? Crow… Crowley?”

**/`| ><|`\**

“Mister Crawly?”

“Crowley! Anthony  _ J _ Crowley!” He hissed under his breath, hating to correct others on his name. “I  _ do _ actually have a name now!”

Although a little pissy, Crowley stormed through the crowd with an exterior confident that would make anyone jealous. Well, they  _ would _ be jealous if Crowley knew how to walk properly. It wasn’t his fault, really, he was just getting used to them again. Crowley strolled to the lone stool with pace to then settle himself into its run-down seat.

The Sorting Hat was placed onto his head, it’s large, oversized shape slightly flattening his red sticky-uppy hair. Crowley watched the crowd below him, some of them anticipating the decision whereas others continued their conversation in indistinct whispers, as the Sorting Hat worked its wonders. What Crowley could not see was the smile that played across the crevices of the Hat that only seemed to falter in concentration as the time passed by, longer and longer, which Crowley found odd for he answered every question of the Hat’s with complete - as complete as he could get- honesty.

Until it has come up with its final decision.

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

How interesting this school was, Crowley was told that it was quite interesting and he’d been impressed so far. He was impressed on how they had surprised him with the purest soul they could find and set him  _ right there _ , in front of him. Quite the shocker, it was. Well, Hogwarts was to surprise him again. Though, this trick wasn’t one he was a fan of. Hufflepuff, how dreadfully devious.

Crowley sighed with small disappointment as he made his way down to his table, the table flocked with yellow, to find a seat as his house-mates stuck their hands out for high-fives of which Crowley returned with little to no hesitation. There were many seats to be had along the stretched benches, of course, but Crowley would’ve really rather have not sat next to anyone. But, he supposed that sitting to that Ineffable  _ Great Plan _ -er was as good as bet as any. 

Crowley could feel eyes on him, eyes like daggers, when he sauntered through the narrow rows in between tables. He knew exactly why they were and who they belonged to but he hadn't bothered to look back at them. He was sure he’d be seeing them later. 

“ _ Well, that one went down like a lead balloon. _ ” Crowley muttered casually, plopping himself down next to the other sulking newly-sorted Hufflepuff as if he were a sack of potatoes.

He glanced over, blinking rapidly in some sort of obvious confusion in silence before stammering out, “What was that?” 

“I said, ‘Well, that one went down like a lead balloon.’” Crowley repeated, a little louder this time.

“Ah.” 

Crowley’s new friend, supposing they were actually friends now, nodded his head in understanding, getting back to his meal. His eyebrows were softly furrowed together, something obviously on his mind. Crowley thought nothing of it and just sat there, arms crossed, watching the remaining first-years be sorted. He grabbed his goblet, feeling its weight to know that it had already been filled. He drank, letting it surprise him for it was blasted  _ Hogwarts  _ and surprise him, it did. Pomegranate. Now that was a change from his regular, preferred apple juice but it was just as good, he supposed.

Crowley knew who this gentleman next to him was, this “Ezra Fell”. He knew of that proper family, everyone did. People called them the Angels but Crowley doubted that were their surnames. People knew them, could pick one out of a crowd by their odd behaviour around anyone, but names. Names were hard to remember. They only ever remembered the Angels’ top children. Everyone knew Gabriel for a reason. The Angels had an infamous reputation of being  _ so very good _ , even when their good made the situation worse. In his childhood, Crowley was taught to never interact with them, never  _ speak  _ to them. Crowley supposed it was too late now but what were the Angels’ lesser-known-nor-did-they-care rival family without some rebels. One rebel, actually. Him.

As time went on, Crowley would catch the Angel glancing back at him but immediately go back to his business. Crowley paid it no mind, attracting eyes was one thing he was great at, whether it was positive or negative. Something was definitely off with the way that the Angel looked at him though. At first, he had mistaken it for some sort of horrible dislike or anger or anything more but, if he dug digger, it was much worse.  _ Pity _ . Crowley could be many things, his wardrobe being big enough to house outfits for any occasion, constantly changing style as a snake would shed its skin, someone to be  _ pitied _ was not one of them.

“Alright, what’s up?” Crowley asked, finally deciding that this was something to be brought up. Crowley could live without such a conversation but this something was bothering the Angel. Something relating to him or his presence.

“Hmm?” He hummed as he kept his eyes on his plate, acting as if he wasn’t stealing glances.

“Something wrong, Angel?” Crowley pried, “Got something on my face, have I?”

“Not anything I can see, no.” The Angel inspected rather thoroughly, shaking his head, completely aware that Crowley had eaten a little next to nothing. “Fortunately, you are free from any rogue specks.”

“I’ve been catching those looks you’ve been throwing me.” Crowley pointed out. “Why do you keep glancing over here? Looking for someone? Have I stole a seat?”

“Ah! Oh, well, it’s nothing to worry about, Crowley.” He said a little bit too casually for it to not be on purpose. “It  _ is  _ rare but it happens to the best of people.”

“What?”

“Well, my dear, you were a hatstall, is all.”

“A  _ what _ ?”

“A hatstall! Okay, look.” The Angel cleared his throat, readying himself for an explanation as he spun his body so it met Crowley’s, his passion seeming genuine but the reason for his looks were not. “The Sorting Hat is a genius and can decide in seconds but you, Crowley, you were up there for over five minutes.  _ Those _ are hatstalls .”

“Over five minutes,” Crowley chuckled with a hint of bitterness, holding up his pomegranate-filled goblet for a toast, “And it stills sorts me into the wrong house.”

“Oh, you can tell me all about it and I’d have more to add.” The Angel laughed softly, colliding his drink with Crowley’s with a satisfying  _ tink _ before taking a drink of his juice.

Crowley paused for a moment, just yet stopping his goblet from reaching his mouth. For those few seconds, he felt his heart thump against his rib cage. He was unable to even utter a word as his face, which seemed to radiate a very low heat, turned to the shade of pink that could be compared to the icing on a birthday cupcake. Grabbing a hold of himself, Crowley faced the Angel, surprised eyes softening behind dark lens.

“I suppose I will, angel.” Crowley managed to stammer out with a smile, lips against the silver of his goblet to then taste the purplish-red liquid. “I suppose I will...”

Crowley had spent the remaining time of the Welcoming Feast chatting, though nothing did really change with the other end. His conversation partner was still acting as professional as ever, talking as if he were fed his lines, but Crowley found that he was chipping slowly away at his large scale walls, bit by bit. Occasionally, pairs of eyes burnt glares into the back of both of their heads from different directions. Crowley assumed that Aziraphale hadn’t noticed them from the way he simply seemed to continue on with the list of traditions from his family. That or either Aziraphale was rather good at ignoring their hate-filled stares.

Finally, when the Feast ended, the hallways were filled with half-bleary-eyed half-energised students in established friendship groups of two or three making their way toward their designation, a scene reminding Crowley f a dreadful Muggle tale of an ark and a flood. Crowley and his friend were still chattering idly about Crowley’s vintage-without-a-scratch broomstick, slowly making their way to the dorms. It wasn’t until a professor, who was assigned to deal with the new potentially-rowdy first-years, mentioned something about choosing which beds they were stuck with for their time at Hogwarts did the conversation change its pace.

“Oh! Beds! Love a good bed, me!” Crowley proclaimed before taking off in the wake of others, through the narrow hallway, behind the three password-held barrels and down in the basement where the common room was kept. “Keep up, angel--! Argh, nevermind, I’ll just save you one!”

**/`| ><|`\**

“Something wrong, boy?” The professor herding the slow-moving back of the crowd inquired.

“Yes… Yes, I suppose something is wrong…” Aziraphale muttered softly, watching as Crowley disappeared amongst the sea of others, “It’s just… I’m rather certain that that student there had spoken Parseltongue earlier tonight.”

**Author's Note:**

> How do you write someone falling in love?
> 
> Gotta love that one Agnes Nutter appearance that will never be used for anything again. I just needed her to make Aziraphale >:((.
> 
> Based on a Tumblr post by @cheeseanonionchips (the wise provider)


End file.
